


I'm Not Like You

by t_hy_la



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Contact, First Contact AU, M/M, POV James T. Kirk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-02-28 15:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13274778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_hy_la/pseuds/t_hy_la
Summary: "If you think someone is hiding out here, you're crazy."orAnother first contact AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written since a horrid Harry Potter thing in middle school. I've read Spock/Kirk fanfiction for so long and decided I'd give it a go. 
> 
> Yeah, the title is from Aliens Exist by Blink-182.

It’s not often that Jim Kirk’s life is interrupted. 

Every day he wakes up alone, right before dawn seeps through the windows of the farmhouse. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, swings his legs over the edge of his bed, stands, and stretches. These are mundane mornings to pair with mundane afternoons, evenings, nights. 

Despite popular belief, tending to a small farm in Middle-of-Nowhere Iowa is boring. Jim’s body aches with the strain of all the work, and his mind aches for more. Turns out, off-the-charts aptitude tests mean nothing when you’re the sole owner of a farm no one wants and the sole doer of the jobs no one else will.

So, when Jim is pulled from his usual restless sleep by a consistent, loud banging on the front door rather than the droning beeps of his alarm, it is at least a little out of the ordinary. 

The subsequential swinging of legs and stretching is done slightly faster than normal. The knocking persists.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” Jim mutters, well out of earshot from his company. The third, seventh, and last stairs give their usual half-hearted creak as his makes his way down them, pulling a shirt on as he goes. 

He makes it to the front door in the kitchen, the tile cold on his bare feet. He opens the door, greeted, greeted is a loose term, Jim thinks, by three men in suits. 

Jim had seen more than his fair share of old movies (there isn’t much to do in Riverside, Iowa, in his defense) and these men look like they have been pulled right out of one. They’re all fairly identical, tall with broad shoulders, and sporting buzz-cuts, dead looks in their eyes and a general don’t-fuck-with-us-vibe.

This, like most things, doesn’t deter Jim. The large farmhouse is hard enough to keep warm from the already chill October nights, and the wide-open door is letting in the cold.

“Look, if this is about the power bill, I’ll have it next week, and it’s awfully early-” Jim starts, only to have his rant cut off before he can even really begin it. 

“James Kirk? We need to come in and ask you a few questions,” says the man who had obviously been doing the knocking, and now appears to be doing the talking. The three men pull out badges Jim doesn’t recognize, but they look official enough, and Jim’s got nothing to lose. It’s this or milking the cows.

He steps aside, and the men walk in. The closed door stops the cold, but their presence certainly doesn’t bring any warmth.

“Have you noticed any suspicious or unusual activity on or around your property in the last 36 hours?” The Talker asks, wasting no time.

Jim pauses for a minute to think. 

“Depends on what you’d consider unusual, gentlemen,” he says as he reaches to the counter and grabs an apple, taking a bite before continuing to talk, mouth full. “Betty, my best cow, isn’t milking like she used to, but the corn is just growing out of control recently...but I’m sure none of that interests you. What, someone escape from the county jail again? I’m telling you, I’ve been in there once or twice, no one really to worry about, if that’s the case.”

“We’re not here to inquire about your livestock, Mr. Kirk,” the same man responded, “we need to know if you’ve noticed any suspicious objects, or any tampering with your house or any of the barns outside.” Their lack of emotion is almost, almost, unsettling to Jim. They’ve managed to not spare a glance to the sparsely decorated kitchen, not landing on the rusty stove or the peeling paint of the cabinets, but rather keeping their eyes trained right on Jim, as if they’re observing his every move or trying to read his mind.

Jim laughs anyway.

“If you think someone is hiding out here, you’re crazy. I’d notice, I’m the only one in the house, like ever, and the only one who moves anything around here. Even if someone were here, they’re not going to find anything of value to take. I think you’re wasting your time.” The light from the sunrise had began shining through the kitchen window, and Jim was getting annoyed.

The man looked at his stone-faced, silent companions, emotionless as ever, which Jim translated as a shrug.

“If you see anything, contact us.” The man handed him a business card that was blank aside from a telephone number in simple black type in the center. These guys clearly weren’t the type for any added flair. 

“Yes, sir,” Jim responded, giving a mock salute. He takes the business card, already planning to toss it as soon as the men are off his property. The three of them turn to leave, synchronized as if they had rehearsed it, and the opening and closing of the door lets in another gasp of cold air. Jim rolls his eyes.

Well, that was weird, he thought, walking back to the stairs and proceeding to go back to his bedroom to get dressed and go see if maybe, just maybe, Betty would want to work with him today. The usual steps gave their creaks, and he rounded the corner of the hallway. However, his path was blocked by a tall, thin man, covered in some kind of green liquid?

Jim’s thoughts were halted by a pressure on his neck followed by black nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I honestly haven't read anything Spirk in so long and The X-Files inspired me to continue this. I'll hopefully be updating more often from now on!

The first thing Jim noticed when he woke up was the heat. His clothes were stuck to him with sweat, and his sheets were soaked. He’s kicked all of his blankets to the foot of his bed, and the heat was still close to suffocating. The uncomfortable feeling pulled him from sleep without any drowsiness.

He sat up quickly and assessed his situation. He had no idea what time it is. He doesn’t remember getting into bed, or falling asleep. He certainly didn’t remember cranking up the thermostat. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, pushing the sweat collected there back into his already damp hair, and tried to think past the headache pounding behind his eyes. 

Right, the men in his kitchen, he thought, suspicious activities. I wonder if they-

Jim’s thoughts were interrupted by the memory of being knocked out by a man in his house. 

Oh shit.

Jim’s house had never been broken into before. He lived far from town and didn’t have any neighbors. The old dirt road to the farmhouse drags on. Besides creepy men on official business, he doesn’t get many visitors, warranted or not.

Well, when he thought about it, his house seemed perfect to rob. 

Jim jumped out of bed and grabs his baseball bat from the closet in his room. He stepped out into the hallway with the bat lifted up to his shoulder. He stopped to glance at the thermostat. 94 degrees. Someone broke into his house, and turned the heat on?

“Jesus,” Jim said aloud to no one, or to someone, if they were actually in his house, and listening. He switched the knob on the thermostat to off.

Maybe the best option was to call the police. However, the Riverside Police Department and James T. Kirk aren’t on the best of terms, and haven’t been in a while. As far as Jim was concerned, drawing attention to himself wasn’t the best idea. Whoever was in his house hasn’t killed him yet. Just knocked him out...then put him to bed. Surely, if killing him were going to happen, it would have while he was unconscious and defenseless, right?

Jim thought about all the movies he’d seen where murderers turn their killings into some kind of game. He gripped the bat a little tighter.

He made his rounds through the upstairs bedrooms and bathroom, throwing each door open quickly and looking around, finding nothing. He was completely on edge and his muscles were tight, but every empty room made it a little easier to breathe. The idea that someone was still in his house started to feel more and more irrational.

He crept down the stairs and checked the living room and kitchen. The locks on the door were all intact and locked, just as he had left them. He goes to each window, expecting to find one broken. He doesn’t find any indication that someone had made it into the house that way.

These findings were beginning to make Jim feel worse rather than better. He was starting to worry that he was losing his mind, but he couldn’t have made up what happened the night before. The heat that had not yet dissipated was the only reminder that something wasn’t normal. As far as he could tell, nothing had been stolen. Nothing about his situation was making any sense.

After checking the entire first floor, Jim returned to the kitchen. His mind was on the business card the men had given him the night before. Maybe calling them was a good idea, the worst they could do is laugh in his face when he voiced his paranoia, and they didn’t seem the type to laugh at anything.

However, the card that he had left on the counter was no longer there. Something about this revelation rattled Jim. Why was everything in his house the same, besides his connection to the men that he was growing to suspect had something to do with what was happening to him? 

Jim took a deep breath as he internally reconciled his paranoia and the fact that the only places left to check in the house were the attic and the basement: prime locations for a slasher film murder scenario. The stairs to the basement led up to the kitchen, so he grabbed a flashlight from the drawer beneath the silverware and began his descent down into the dark. He was wielding the baseball bat in one hand and the dimly lit flashlight in the other, because of course, the batteries were running low. 

The wooden stairs creaked with every step he took, and when Jim reached the bottom he gave the area a quick sweep with his flashlight. Every shadow on the concrete walls and piece of old furniture stored in the basement looked menacing. After a few tense seconds, Jim came to the conclusion that there was, once again, nothing to worry about. 

Just as Jim began to turn to walk back into the kitchen, a clatter of something falling to the ground made him jump back and let out an embarrassing yell, training his flashlight towards the direction of the noise. 

He relaxed his stance when he saw the old calico cat that comes in and out of the house, which Jim allows because her now graying fur doesn’t mean she still can’t take care of all the mice during the winter. 

“Shit, you scared the shit out of me,” Jim said to the cat as he dropped the bat and flashlight in favor of kneeling down to let her nuzzle on his hands, “by the looks of it, you might be losing some of that gracefulness.” He could admit to himself that her company is comforting. He stood back up after some therapeutic petting.

This time, when he turned around, he was face to face with another person. 

Jim, who had been in his fair share of fights, immediately swung at the intruder. The man, however, grabbed his fist faster than anyone else Jim had ever fought could have. In a split second, Jim found himself with his arms pinned behind his back. He immediately began to struggle, trying to pull free of the man’s grasp. 

“What the fuck? Let me go!” Jim yelled as he tried in vain to break out of the man’s arms. He did know, however, when to accept defeat, and eventually stopped fighting as it became apparent that his strength came nowhere close to the intruder’s. 

“Are you finished?” The man asked him calmly. 

Jim was not calm. Jim was pissed, and scared, and therefore began to swing at the man’s face again. This led to the man reaching his hand up to Jim’s shoulder, causing his memory to recall the events of last night once again.

“Wait, no, don’t do that shit again!” Jim said, jumping backward and out of the man’s reach. To Jim’s surprise, he made no attempt to bridge the gap and try to harm him again. This gave Jim time to catch his breath, collect his thoughts, and come up with the logical next step in this fucked up scenario. He bent down to pick up his flashlight from where it hit the ground. 

“What do you want?” Jim asked as he stood back up, the beam of his flashlight dragging along the man’s body until it reached his face. Any other words Jim was about to say were caught in his throat. 

The man was looking at him analytically, but Jim’s eyes were not on his face. They were on the strange point of his ears, like Jim imagined belonged to the elves in the fantasy novels that were crammed in his bookshelf upstairs. They were on the scabbed over cuts on the man’s skin, dark green where they should be red. 

“I’m going crazy,” Jim said aloud, to himself this time, feeling lightheaded, leaning back against the wooden handrail of the basement stairs. What the hell was happening to him?

“I can assure you that you are not, Mr. Kirk,” the man told him, voice just as even as the first time he spoke. 

From the way Jim saw it, he could do one of two things, the first being pass out on the basement floor, and the second, playing along with whatever was happening as if he were not losing his mind. Resilient as always, Jim chose the latter.

“How do you know my name? Who are you? What are you?” Jim asked in a single breath. This time, the man paused before responding to his inquiry, as if he were unsure how to respond.

“My name is S'chn T'gai Spock. I know that you are James Tiberius Kirk, because I took the liberty to seek this information while you were unconscious last night,” he answered. The man hesitated before continuing, “I am what you would call an extraterrestrial.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr @stvrtrck


End file.
